


Absence Makes The Heart Grow Fonder

by ApostateDreams



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Chubby Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Has Long Hair (Good Omens), Eventual Smut, Friendship, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, mlm author, what happens after the non-apocalypse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:33:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25371703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ApostateDreams/pseuds/ApostateDreams
Summary: Aziraphale loves Crowley, and Crowley realizes he loves Aziraphale back just a little too late. Aziraphale no longer resides on planet Earth, but love overcomes any and every obstacle, right?
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 46





	1. An Unfortunate Letter

**Author's Note:**

> Hey Ma, I put my Sunday school learnin' to good use.

_Came in from a rainy Thursday on the avenue  
Thought I heard you talking softly  
I turned on the lights, the TV, and the radio  
Still I can't escape the ghost of you _

_What has happened to it all?  
Crazy, some'd say  
Where is the life that I recognize?  
Gone away _

~~~

Aziraphale was reluctant to admit it aloud, but the last cinch in convincing him to join in averting the apocalypse was not the loss of lovely places, lively creatures, riveting books and delicious food. No, it was none of that. The straw that broke the camel's back was the unforgettable realization that the loss of Earth meant the loss of Crowley. The demon was Aziraphale's dearest friend and, dare he say it, the target of his clandestine love and yearning. 

Unsure when exactly the seed was sown or how it sprouted into something undeniable, Aziraphale kept his feelings to himself for centuries. There was never an opportunity or a reason to express his innermost desires to Crowley. Indeed, also, he was afraid. The bond he shared with Crowley was already unprecedented. Aziraphale was fortunate enough to call him his friend. Requited love between a demon and an angel was too much to ask for. Regardless, Aziraphale wished to preserve Earth in the end, because without it he and Crowley would never see one another again. 

It's not as if Crowley would disappear. The implication is that post apocalypse all demons and angels would simply return home. The angels to Above and the demons to Below, the ‘winning side’ could celebrate victory whilst the ‘losing side’ licked their wounds. No more Earth, no more space to meet each other in the middle. The realization pommeled the angel's mind again and again: apocalypse meant no more Crowley, for all of eternity. 

No, we can't have that, he thought. Simply can't have it. 

Thus he joined the doomsday thwarting. A wayward demon and angel halted the destruction of planet Earth. The rest is history. Or so Aziraphale thought. 

~~~ 

Presently, Aziraphale grips a sheet of parchment with white-knuckled fingers, eyes wide and lips tight. The angel trembles so anxiously that his vast collection of books vibrate on their shelves around him. 

"It can't- Oh dear, it just can't be." 

"What can't be, angel?" 

Crowley. Who else would it be? The demon graces (err, _blights_ ) the doorway of the angel's bookshop, a companion in a time of need. Except, there is nothing to be done about this... 

"I'm-" Aziraphale swallows the lump in his throat. "I'm being recalled... I am to return to heaven 'as soon as possible, with an expectation to remain in Her holy abode'." He quotes the curling script on the parchment clamped between his shaking hands. 

Something flits across Crowley's features. With his snake eyes obscured by dark glasses, Aziraphale cannot quite pin what is is. Perhaps shock or sorrow. Then, quick as the expression came, it is replaced by unmistakable anger. 

"Fucking- _No_. They can't do that." Crowley fists his hands at his sides and takes a few heavy steps further into the shop. "Tell them to bugger off! You've been a field agent for six millennia. Above can't just terminate your post like that!" 

Aziraphale sinks into the armchair at his desk, allowing the parchment paper to unceremoniously flutter to the floor. "They can, and they have." He says despondently, staring into the middle-distance. "I have no authority to refuse orders from the higher-ups." 

"Oh come off it." Says Crowley. "Have you forgotten the whole save-the-world adventure we had already? That was an exercise in refusing orders from high and mighty air-heads." 

"How could I forget that?" Aziraphale replies warmly, mind briefly going to the fond, if slightly terrifying, memories of their adventures. "But, that was subterfuge. This...is different." 

"Fine." Crowley turns away and for a moment Aziraphale thinks he'll leave, but he just pulls up an extra chair and sits near the desk. "Enlighten me. On what grounds are they recalling you?" 

He takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes as if that will make speaking any easier. "I am to stand official trial before the heavenly court." 

Crowley says nothing for a moment, and Aziraphale gazes at him. The demon's brow furrows above his sunglasses and his mouth sets in a grim line. "Trial for what?" He finally asks. 

This Aziraphale really doesn't want to admit aloud. He looks away and whispers, "Isn't it obvious?", hoping that will suffice. 

"Well shit." Crowley replies. 

~~~ 

Humans possess free will, and in a similar fashion so do angels and demons. This actually makes bureaucratic matters _much simpler_ (read: _dictated by nincompoops_ ) in Heaven and Hell. No need for almighty beings to micromanage every occult and ethereal resident on their respective sides. Great swathes of average existence Above and Below are left to be dealt with by very fallible angels and demons. 

Therefore, Crowley thinks, there is yet some way this whole put-Aziraphale-on-trial thing might be a mistake. A holy trial has both an 'accused' and an 'accuser'. And, well, if the head honcho is the accuser then the accused is pretty much done for, but that rarely happens. In this case, the accuser probably is some dim wit who thinks owning books or enjoying food or generally not being a righteous arsehole is a _sin_ or something. Or, more obviously, some diehard ineffable plan fan disappointed that planet Earth didn't get wiped off the face of the universe. Take your pick. Overall, Aziraphale isn't exactly "model angel" material, so it'd be easy for any angelic idiot to pick on his so called _flaws_ and whip up this whole holy trial nonsense to earn cookie-points. 

Such an irony that the very characteristics that isolate Aziraphale from the rest of angelkind are exactly what draw Crowley to him. He knew the angel was special from the moment he met him, overlooking a desert, witnessing the first rain together... Through millennia Crowley learned to enjoy Aziraphale's tendencies and quirks, even the ones that drove him mad at first. Now the demon cannot imagine existence without him by his side. 

In fact, there lies _a significant_ (read: _the only_ ) reason why Crowley bothered to avert Armageddon. Sure Earth has its myriad of sinfully good things, but really Crowley just wanted to ensure he'd spend eternity with his angel, instead of down Below with kinsmen who ostracized him anyway. 

Yet now with this trial nonsense, Crowley faces an earthly existence without Aziraphale: the exact opposite of what he risked everything for! 

"I've got to do something..." Mutters Crowley, sitting rather like Rodin's 'The Thinker' in his chair. 

"Please, don't concern yourself for my sake." Aziraphale reemerges from his book shop's back room with a tea tray he'd gone to fetch them. "I'll figure something out while I'm up there." 

"That doesn't mean I can't help." Crowley snaps, and then downs the scalding tea set in front of him in one long gulp before practically slamming the empty cup back onto its saucer. "You just don't want to admit that you have no idea what to do." 

"Really my dear, what would you do? Come with me?" Asks Aziraphale, sipping his own tea politely, sitting back at his desk. 

Crowley can't help but to flinch a little at the thought. Him, in heaven. He'd be smote before he finished walking through the entryway. 

"That's what I thought." Aziraphale sighs into his tea, sets the cup down and stares at it, for all sakes and purposes seeming utterly defeated. "Crowley, I'm not saying I don't appreciate you. Because I do, very much. But this isn't something that can be fought. I simply must go, and- and do my best to return to Earth...after..." 

Aziraphale falters on the last bit, betraying the fear that he and Crowley both share: Aziraphale probably won't be coming back. The missive itself stated as much, or at least seemed to. Crowley might never see him again. These could be their last moments together, and they're spending them worrying and drinking blessed tea! 

"Angel..." Crowley begins softly, then proceeds to lose his train of thought when Aziraphale looks up at him abruptly. His lustrous eyes swim with tears that threaten to spill over. Crowley panics. 

"W-wait wait, no wait-" Crowley leaps from his chair in alarm, sending it clattering to the floor. "Don't cry! Don't cry!" He flails his hands out in front of himself helplessly. 

Aziraphale bursts into tears, trying and failing to hide his red face behind his hands. "Y-you, A. J. Crowley, are wretched at comforting." He manages in between sobs. "I have to l-leave Earth and you expect me n-not to cry?" 

"You just said you'd figure something out!" 

"I don't know what I'm g-going to figure out! I was j-just trying to be optimistic!" 

"Then why won't you let me fucking help you?!" 

"It's not-" Aziraphale takes a shuddery breath. "It's not that simple. You just...can't." 

Crowley's insides twist into knots. The sight of Aziraphale, crying and helpless, causes a surge of something warm and anxious to claw its way up his throat. He thinks he must say something, anything. 

Crowley grabs Aziraphale by his trembling shoulders. He attempts to be gentle as he hauls the angel up from his desk chair, but his own hands feel rough and clumsy as he coaxes Aziraphale to stand. 

"Look at me, Aziraphale." He commands. When the other being makes no move to do so Crowley snatches his own sunglasses off of his face and throws them onto the floor. 

"Please, angel, look at me." 

Aziraphale finally looks up. The redness wreathing his crying eyes enhances their irises' startling blue, and Crowley transfixes momentarily on a fat teardrop clinging to his pale eyelashes. The teardrop falls onto one of Aziraphale's pink-flushed cheeks, and Crowley, near reflexively, brushes it away with his thumb. 

"I know I'm bloody awful at comforting and helping and being polite and all that crap." Crowley begins, his teardrop-brushing hand still lingering on Aziraphale's face. "But, at least allow me to...stay with you until you must..." 

_Until you must leave_.

"Crowley...dearest, I wouldn't have it any other way." Aziraphale replies, leaning, however minutely, into the demon's touch. 

At a loss for words, Crowley pulls Aziraphale to his chest, arms wrapping around him in a hug that feels so natural despite Crowley not remembering having ever hugged anyone before. Aziraphale shudders in his embrace, still hiccuping with residual sobs, and Crowley holds him tighter, tighter, stroking his hands along Aziraphale's sides and back until his shaky sobs are just little quivers of breath. 

After Aziraphale calms down, he returns Crowley's embrace in kind, rather than backing away as Crowley expected he might. Just the sweeping contact of Aziraphale's hands on his back through layers of clothing cause Crowley's body to fizzle with goosebumps. Does everyone feel lightheaded when they do this, Crowley wonders. 

When Aziraphale releases him and steps away from Crowley's space, he gets the craziest impulse to yank the angel back in, to somehow maintain the full-body contact for just a little longer. The demon in him yearns to take, take, take, but he resists. 

"Would you like to have dinner with me?" Aziraphale asks, swiping the last of his tears from his cheeks and straightening his bowtie 

"Yes, whatever you want." 

~~~ 

They order take out and dine in the flat upstairs. Aziraphale is in no mood to leave his shop and home. Apparently he is in no mood to eat much either, if the way he listlessly pushes his food around in his to-go box is any indication. 

"You'll feel better if you eat something." Crowley suggests. 

"You know, I technically don't need to eat." Replies Aziraphale. 

"True, but you like to eat." He grins and pokes Aziraphale in his soft side. "Actually, I know what would help." 

He gets up from the old couch they're currently sharing and fetches a bottle of rich red wine and pours them each a glass. "Drink up, angel, I can't stand being sober right now." 

Aziraphale proceeds to drink the proffered wine about as enthusiastically as he ate his food, but at least he's eating and drinking. He even seems to liven up a little once the food is eaten and they're on to their second bottle of wine. The two of them talk of trivial but entertaining topics, both avoiding the looming issue at hand. 

Perhaps it's for the best. Crowley wouldn't know what to say. All he knows is that the thought of Aziraphale leaving makes his adrenaline rush and his chest tight and his nose and eyes prickle. 

What will he do without him? Aziraphale in one way or another over countless years became a constant in Crowley's life. Never did the angel question Crowley's innermost nature or ask him to change himself. Never did he look down upon him or condescend or sneer. Aziraphale accepts him during the best and worst of times as an equal and a friend. Neither Heaven nor Hell ever offered Crowley that much. Even Earth will lose its lustre without his angel in it, together with him where he ought to be. 

A soft, warm pressure along his left side startles Crowley from the moroseness of his thoughts. He glances to see that Aziraphale sidled over to his side of the couch, and leaned up against him. 

"Is this okay?" Aziraphale asks, gazing up at Crowley, cheeks rosy and mouth wine-red. 

On the one hand, this is the _most okay_ thing Crowley thinks has ever happened to him. On the other hand, Aziraphale is not usually so...affectionate. Could it be due to his drunken state? Or could it be because he feels sad about his impending departure to Above? It doesn't matter, Crowley decides. If these are their last fleeting moments together, he wants to make the most of them, and sharing closeness with Aziraphale makes him feel balanced, at peace, for lack of a better term. 

"Yes," The demon answers belatedly. "I don't see why you have to even ask." 

"It's only polite." Comes the reply, as Aziraphale settles in, leaning his head on Crowley's shoulder. 

"Of course you'd say that." Crowley means to sound dismissive, but his voice doesn't obey him. The response comes out low and foreign-sounding to his own ears. 

Aziraphale chuckles, and Crowley feels the vibrations of it all along his flank where they're touching from head to thigh. He can smell Aziraphale's hair where the white-blond strands tickle his neck and face. He can sense the warmth radiating from the angel's body through his clothing. It's too much. And not enough. Crowley does not make a habit of analyzing his desires, just fulfilling them, as any decent demon does. Yet this desire for affectionate closeness with another strikes him as totally unusual. 

As Crowley ponders to himself, he feels his limbs grow limp and eyelids become heavy behind his sunglasses. Without exactly meaning to, he leans his cheek against Aziraphale's head, and allows apprehensions to give way for just feeling, just comfort. 

This is so nice, Crowley thinks, I want to stay here with him forever... 

~~~ 

"...Crowley...Crowley..." 

_Don't wanna wake up_...

"Crowley...just know..." 

_Too early_...

"...I love you..." 

~~~ 

Hours later Crowley awakens alone, sprawled on the old cabriole sofa with the golden light of sunrise creeping across the wooden floors of the flat's living room. 

And Aziraphale is gone.

~~~ 

_But I won't cry for yesterday  
There's an ordinary world  
Somehow I have to find  
And as I try to make my way  
To the ordinary world  
I will learn to survive_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song lyrics: 'Ordinary World' by Duran Duran. 
> 
> Hi, I'm Ed, and I wrote this story after listening to too much 80s music. Thanks for reading chapter one.


	2. Lonely Places

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my friends, thank you for returning to read chapter two!

_Passion or coincidence  
Once prompted you to say   
‘Pride will tear us both apart’   
Well now pride's gone out the window   
Cross the rooftops   
Run away   
Left me in the vacuum of my heart _

_What is happening to me?  
Crazy some'd say   
Where is my friend when I need you most?   
Gone away_

~~~

The old bookshop on the corner in London is empty, empty, empty. Sure, all of the accoutrements of library and living space are still there, but without the usual resident gracing the rooms within, it might as well be a yawning void.

Crowley darkens the doorway of each room in turn, futilely searching for any sign of Aziraphale. He knows his angel has left, has gone to Above, but still his eyes sweep across each and every wall and corner, half-expecting to catch Aziraphale lounging with a book or nibbling on a snack.

Crowley's one and only friend in this universe truly has gone. No more Aziraphale, perhaps eternally. The reality of the situation sinks in and gnaws at Crowley’s consciousness in a way it did not the night before. Loneliness, like a scythe, threatens to slice open his very soul. Crowley does the only thing he can think to do: he flees. Taking advantage of his demonic powers of speed and flight, he escapes as far away as possible.

_"Take care of my shop while I'm gone." Aziraphale said. "You don't have to keep it open, but I'd feel better if someone checked in on it every now and again."_

Crowley wants to keep his word to Aziraphale about the shop, but he simply cannot stand to be there right now. For days he does not count, Crowley wanders the Earth and grasps for any distraction, any meaning, any _anything_.

~~~

Heaven is meant to be paradise, but for one angel, it currently transfers trepidation only. Under different circumstances Aziraphale might catch up with his compatriots and bask in the godly light of this realm. Yet the truth of the matter is that he was summoned here for judgment, and potential humiliation and punishment before his peers.

As a matter of fact, the judgement begins before the trial does. The longer Aziraphale spends up Above, the more he hears the tittering and whispers of other angels around him, and the more he resides on the receiving end of their sidelong glances. They're talking about him, that much is clear, and it seems that everyone was informed of the circumstances of his return before he even got here.

It's nothing new. Aziraphale wishes he could say that he fit in at one point. But from the moment The Creator set him loose he's always been...just a little off. Too clumsy, too casual, too lackadaisical. You name it. However, Aziraphale can't say he's ever been this thoroughly _othered_ until now.

_Disgraceful_ , they say.

_Corrupted_ , they say.

_Traitor_ , they say.

Their words would cut deeper, if Aziraphale was not already so sure of where his heart lies.

Nothing anyone says will sway Aziraphale from the path he has already chosen, or convince him to disavow what he’s embraced for centuries. The gossip hurts because it is meant to be hurtful, but their opinions and reasoning mean nothing.

I know who I am, Aziraphale tells himself, and I must be strong and I must be true.

~~~

By the time Crowley brings himself to return to the bookshop, a fine film of dust has settled over nearly every surface. Blessed old shops create dust like nobody's business. Crowley miracles every last mote away with a flick of his wrist before he steps past the front entrance. No sense in dirtying up his stylish clothes.

The shop is as it was left the morning Crowley ditched it. With a pang in his chest, he notices that their two teacups still sit untouched upon Aziraphale's writing desk: a black mug and a white one. He approaches and runs his fingertips along the ceramic wings that serve as the handle to Aziraphale's favorite mug.

_...I love you..._

Crowley snatches his hand away from the mug as if it burned him. Visions of his last night together with Aziraphale resurface from the nebulousness of his memory.

Crowley remembers sinking into sleep on the couch with Aziraphale tucked safely by his side. He remembers the softness of the angel's hair against his face, and the tickle of his relaxed breathing against his neck. He remembers thinking furtively, shamefully, that if only he could hold on to Aziraphale, prevent him from leaving, extend their intimate moment into forever, that the angel might realize they belong together rather than apart.

And then... Later, Crowley recalls rousing to a semi-awakened state by a warm hand stroking his hair, his face. It was too early, the sun hadn't even risen yet. Oh, but it was so nice to be touched gently like that. Like he was important, precious. It was such a guilty, undemonic indulgence for him to have, but half-asleep, he could allow it.

_"Crowley, just know that I love you."_

There it is. Aziraphale's words he'd almost forgotten. A confession.

Crowley flops into Aziraphale's desk chair, stunned for the moment.

He's not exactly in the routine of checking in with himself—why bother psychoanalyzing his life when he can just live it? However, Crowley knew for a long time that he thinks of Aziraphale as his best friend, as the only being he trusts, as _his_. Such thoughts naturally lend themselves to deeper feelings. Crowley never really put it into words before, how he wants to be close to Aziraphale, how he wants to know everything about him. He wants to be there for him and protect him. Is this love? Crowley has no idea. He has no reference point to measure such a notion. Crowley knew God's love once, and then he knew God's wrath, but what he feels now is nothing like that.

And then there's...the lust that he feels. Demons feel lust. It's natural. Yet, is it significant that Crowley's lust only ever directs itself at Aziraphale? No one else ever made his body tingle from head to toe, nor caused his mind to short-circuit with a meaningful glance or a sly word. Without a doubt, it's always just been his angel.

Aziraphale is it for him. And Crowley might've had the chance to express this the night before he left, but he didn't.

Crowley pushes his sunglasses up to his hair and rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands until he sees phosphenes on the insides of his eyelids. He feels sad. He feels angry. He feels a bloody headache coming on.

Expressing intimate thoughts and emotions is not exactly Crowley's forte. Apparently it's not Aziraphale's either, considering he waited until Crowley was mostly comatose to tell him that...

_He loves him_.

Aziraphale _loves_ him. Aziraphale loves Crowley.

The demon laughs.

Crowley laughs and laughs, his voice echoing in the empty bookshop. He laughs until his sides hurt, he laughs until the scented candles on the writing desk and register counter light themselves with demonic flame. Crowley laughs until his eyes nearly form tears.

Of course. _Of course_ he would only discover his and Aziraphale’s requited feelings after they could no longer see each other.

"I have to get him back." Crowley's voice rasps from the good chuckle he had, but his conviction still rings true. It's time to make a plan...

He skulks around the shop, and then the flat above, idly searching for clues that might help him reunite with his angel somehow. However, when he reaches Aziraphale's bedroom he becomes sidetracked. Firstly, the whole room hosts stacks of organized clutter, mostly books but also the occasional antique or historical artifact here and there. Secondly, unlike the rest of the building, Aziraphale's fragrance has not faded from here. Crowley didn't even realize how much he missed the angel's scent; being surrounded by it is better than any analgesic. Lastly, the afternoon sunlight filtering through the casement windows along one wall bathes the unmade bed with squares of golden sunlight that look oh so inviting.

Crowley plunges into the bed and rolls around gleefully amongst the duvet and pillows. It's the very first time he ever partook of something so intimately Aziraphale's. But what even is the point if he's not here?, Crowley wonders, settling on his back with arms and legs akimbo.

If Aziraphale were here...

The scenario proves easy to imagine with softness and Aziraphale's scent surrounding him. Aziraphale would be in bed with him, wrapped in Crowley's arms exactly how he wants him. What might it be like to hold someone who he loves, and being held and loved in return?

Crowley had a taste of it the evening before Aziraphale departed, of embracing his angel. However, Aziraphale was sad then, and crying. In the current scenario from Crowley's mind's eye the angel is his usual jovial self, smiling, radiant, and with eyes for Crowley alone.

That's what he wants, Aziraphale's full attention. He desires all of his love and affection. He desires him mind, body, and soul.

"You'll be all mine, angel." Crowley whispers to the empty room, and he imagines finally, finally, _finally_ kissing Aziraphale, right here in this bed. Pressing against him and holding him tightly. Tasting his lips, his tongue, his body.

Crowley groans under his breath, his body catching up with his mind and causing his prick to stir in his tight trousers.

He's touched himself to similar imaginings before, but now is not really the time. He's on a mission for cripes-sake!

Mildly mournful at missing the opportunity to jerk off in Aziraphale's unmade bed, Crowley forces himself to get up and calm down.

Exhausting his search upstairs, Crowley returns to the empty shop below. He paces near Aziraphale's desk, pondering, when something crunches under his shoe.

It's a piece of parchment. Crowley picks it up off the floor, cringing slightly from a residual holy aura clinging to the paper.

It is the missive from that fateful day, the letter that prompted Aziraphale's recall to Above.

Crowley glances over the too-formal script upon the parchment, and nearly drops it to the floor again.

"Fuck, angel, why didn't you tell me it was like this?"

~~~

_But I won't cry for yesterday  
There's an ordinary world   
Somehow I have to find   
And as I try to make my way   
To the ordinary world   
I will learn to survive _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song lyrics: 'Ordinary World' by Duran Duran.
> 
> Comments are my life-blood. Please praise me or talk some shit, idc.
> 
> Also check me out on instagram for art and stuff: @variante7art


	3. The Holy Trial

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back friends! Thank you for still being with me. I hope you enjoy this chapter!
> 
> Disclaimer: Idk how courtrooms work, and I didn’t feel like giving myself a crash course in lawyer-ing, so y’all get me winging it.

_Papers in the roadside  
Tell of suffering and greed  
Fear today, forgot tomorrow  
Ooh, here beside the news  
Of holy war and holy need  
Ours is just a little sorrowed talk_

~~~

Holy courtrooms are every bit as austere and dreadfully gold and white in color scheme as one might typically expect them to be. If Aziraphale felt ill-favored elsewhere in heaven, he feels downright denigrated here. Everywhere he looks, his fellow angels occupying the courtroom pews look down upon him with distaste. Of course, the same whispers and rumors that maligned him elsewhere up Above followed him here tenfold.

 _Traitor_ , they say.

 _Disgusting_ , they say.

 _Seduced by the Enemy_ , they say.

Aziraphale almost wants to deny it, to say they're wrong, but, really, they're not. Not exactly. The problem is not the question of whether Aziraphale did what he did, thinks what he thinks, or feels what he feels. The trial will not prove or disprove that. It's obvious and proven. The issue at hand is a war of perspective. Aziraphale, a being of love, directed that love at someone, in their eyes, he should not have.

So, when the presiding archangel demands to know: "For what are thou accused and how do thee plead?"

Aziraphale answers, before the angelic jury and crowded pews, "I am accused of loving a demon, and I do not make a plea to this court.”

The last few words reverberate across the room and reflect back as an emphatic echo that quickly fades to stinging silence again.

The presiding archangel regains their composure first and asks icily, one of their eyebrows raised with more condescension than curiosity, “Are thou certain you have naught to say? Refusal to plea will not add to thy defense nor favor.”

“I do not ask for favor, and I have no need of a defense.” Aziraphale swallows the lump in his throat; he cannot believe he’s doing this. “I would like only for you to listen, and offer me the same compassion you might offer to a friend.”

~~~

This might be the most moronic, ludicrous, absolutely absurd plan Crowley could come up with.

It’s perfect.

Crowley doffs his clothing with a snap of his fingers, and thanks the— _someone_ that Aziraphale prefers to collect clothing rather than imagine it into existence from ether. Sifting through Aziraphale’s wardrobe, the angel’s scent wafts around Crowley’s face, and his hands begin to tremble.

 _I miss him so much_ , Crowley thinks, and before he can stop it, his corporation sheds a few tears that he angrily scrubs away with the back of his hand.

After that, Crowley yanks random clothes off of hangers in the wardrobe until he has a functioning ensemble together. It’s mismatched, that’s for sure, but for once in his existence Crowley cannot compel big himself to be a stickler for style. What matters is that these are pieces of clothing Aziraphale wore for a long time, and thus imbued with angelic aura.

If Crowley’s hypothesis proves correct, Aziraphale’s clothing and shoes shall provide a buffer between him and any holy energy he’ll encounter. If his hypothesis ends up wrong, well, what does it matter anyway? Crowley didn’t stop an apocalypse to live on Earth without Aziraphale, and no one in Heaven, Hell or between is going to bring Aziraphale back except for him. In fewer words: Crowley has nothing to lose.

With that grim thought in mind, Crowley exits the bookshop and hops into his vintage Bentley. He accelerates the car to an unholy speed and heads to a place that’s neither here nor there. What better place to infiltrate the _other side_ than the front door, after all.

When Crowley screeches to a halt outside his destination and saunters out from his vehicle as lackadaisically as he can in baggy, borrowed clothing, he’s shocked still to discover someone waiting for him. Two someones, in fact.

The pair of someones linger out front of the entryway Crowley meant to access. They’re dressed smartly, stand stiffly, and each sport matching visor-style sunglasses that render their expressions inscrutable.

And they’re angels.

“Right,” Crowley mumbles to himself, “in for a penny, in for a pound,” and resumes walking.

“Halt,” one of the angels demands once Crowley comes too close.

“Are you the demon, Crawley?” asks the other.

“Erk, well, no. No, you’ve got the wrong guy.” Crowley answers somewhat haltingly. “And I’m in quite a rush...”

However, when he attempts to maneuver past the pair, they sidle closer together, effectively blocking the way entirely.

“Now look,” the first one says, “we were put on watch for a fellow with ginger hair and good fashion sense, and you’ve got one of those.”

“So give us a moment to decide what to do with you.” The second one chimes in.

Crowley’s torn between taking offense and wishing he wore a hat as the two angels step to the side and begin whispering amongst themselves.

The longer they deliberate, the more annoyed Crowley becomes, going so far as to tap his foot on the floor impatiently.

 _Actually, screw this_ , he thinks, and sprints past the two angelic sods.

The first couple of steps present no issue, but about a dozen or so steps up the stairway to heaven Crowley feels ill. Wave after wave of clammy frissons prickle across his skin, and he breaks out in a cold sweat. His mad run slows to a sluggish jog as gravity seems to amp up the force of the earth below dragging him down.

Yet for all this, Crowley feels no pain. Wearing Aziraphale’s clothing spared him that at least. Even now as holy resistance to his demonic presence manifests as a visible aura crackling against Crowley’s own, his corporation continues unharmed.

Eventually Crowley can see it: a blindingly golden-white light emanating from beyond the top of the stairway. _That’s it! That’s where Aziraphale is!_ he thinks triumphantly. He continues his arduous advance, step by step bringing him closer until but a few more remain. At this point Crowley’s limbs feel leaden, and the fight between Heaven’s aura and his own fills his nostrils with an odor that’s bitter and burnt. Yet even as Crowley senses his very essence shaking and vibrating within his corporation, he presses forward.

At the second to last step, fireworks pop off in Crowley’s mind’s eye. He’s nearly done it, he’s come this far in one piece with naught but the clothes of someone he loves protecting him. A loud bang seems to erupt from between his very ears, followed by a sensation as if someone dumped cold water over his head. What is up trades places with what is down, and then nothing is there at all.

~~~

“Why should we listen to anything from you that is not a plea for forgiveness?” The presiding archangel asks Aziraphale sharply, for the moment abandoning their previous impassiveness and revealing obvious distaste.

Aziraphale flinches, and then recovers quickly. He does not want to show weakness here of all places, no matter how stress-inducing speaking out is. He inhales a deep breath through his nose, and answers.

“Centuries ago, your words might have cowed me. We ethereal beings like to pretend there’s value in tradition for tradition’s sake, but just as the physical universe fluctuates so do we. Have we not moved past the point of inventing crimes and calling punishments justice?” Aziraphale’s hands tremble against the small podium he stands behind as he speaks, but his voice betrays no anxiety, and he goes on:

“Neither I nor anyone else should beg forgiveness for love.”

Silence follows. For every thump of the nervous heart within his chest—something he forgets to cease the function of even up here—Aziraphale loses a bit of hope. Then, some murmurs make their way through the audience seated in the pews and even in the jury. The subtle talk starts quiet, then flourishes into commentary the whole court can hear.

 _The principality has a point_ , they say.

 _He’s never done wrong by me_ , they say.

 _I think they’re being too harsh with him_ , they say.

Aziraphale stares agog at them all, stunned by any iota of support they give to him. He knows he won’t win over the archangel sitting in judgement, but if he can garner support from most of his peers here then there might be a chance he’ll come out on the other side of all this.

“Silence!” Booms the presiding archangel, squashing all opinionated chatter then and there. “There shall be order in this court, and ye shall all save your talk for the jury rooms.”

Just like that, a death shroud of silence settles once more, and the archangel turns swiftly upon Aziraphale.

“And Aziraphale, thy pithy words might sway the lesser crowds, but they’ll soon see thy guilt manifest.”

The gold-gilded courtroom doors creak open slow and heavy, making way for a few figures to enter and traverse the aisle between the rows of pews.

Initially, Aziraphale notices the defensive, outstretched wings of two angels flanking the tiny procession. Then an acrid clash of aura hits him, as well as everyone else, most of whom gasp or reflexively shield themselves with their hands or wings.

It makes sense; most angels have never been close to or even seen an actual demon before.

Between the two angels who just entered, reduced to a seemingly semiconscious state, Crowley straggles limply. His two captors, conventional angels that they are, refrain from actually touching him. Instead, intangible ligatures controlled by the pair both bind Crowley and prevent Heaven’s ether from smiting him.

Aziraphale first feels shock and sorrow, and then an indescribable rage. Hesitation never enters his mind as he vaults over his podium, toppling it with a loud boom, and sprints down the aisle towards Crowley and his captors.

What follows is more of a panicked brawl than a coordinated fight. Aziraphale’s wings burst out from his back, and serve to give him leverage as he pries the ligatures from Crowley’s captors’ hands. Feathers fly everywhere, the offending angels shout for someone to restrain the accused, Aziraphale shouts curses back at them, and all the while a gavel bangs out a cacophony in the background.

After what feels like minutes, but was surely only seconds, Aziraphale holds Crowley bridal-style in his arms, white wings spread threateningly to keep all others away as loose feathers slowly drift to the ground around them. For all the ruckus, Crowley only murmurs and mumbles something like “Where am I?” in between incoherent nonsense. Cradling Crowley, Aziraphale also notices his friend’s unusual fashion choices: his own clothing. Once an array of pale blues and beiges, the shirt and trousers hanging from Crowley’s slim frame now sport a patina of black oxidation—the result of his demonic aura reacting with that of Heaven. Aziraphale might have found the demon’s borrowed ensemble endearing, if not for the ire still consuming him at the sight of Crowley roughed up like this.

“Why have you brought him here?” demands Aziraphale, as much to the presiding archangel as to his friend’s original captors. He feels sure this horrible deed was orchestrated by the higher-ups somehow.

The archangel smirks, appearing to enjoy Aziraphale’s anguish as much as a, well, typical _demon_ might. How ironic.

“Did I not just say your guilt would be made manifest for all to see?” They ask, rather rhetorically. “The demon was brought here to show the masses your shame. Why, you even go so far as to actually _touch_ the thing. How far you have fallen, Principality Aziraphale.”

“Crowley is not _a thing_.” Someone says, low and dangerous. Taken aback, Aziraphale belatedly recognizes the threatening voice as his own.

Then another belated recognition reaches him in the form of a warm wetness trickling across Aziraphale’s arm where he protectively cradles Crowley’s head. He spares a glance down and sees a small pool of ruby red blood forming at his feet. The source of said blood becomes apparent as Aziraphale registers the sticky, matted-together hair at the back of Crowley’s skull. A head wound.

Crowley’s head was struck hard enough to bleed, and the ethereal aura imbued through all of Heaven prevents him from healing.

“You…hurt him…” Aziraphale whispers, threatening danger still on his tongue.

Aziraphale rounds on the two angels who served as Crowley’s captors. “You _hurt him_.” He says again, louder this time, taking a step forward.

The two lesser angels have the good sense to retreat a little as Aziraphale advances upon them. He can think of very few times when hurting others seemed like the rightful answer, but with Crowley injured and bleeding in his arms, Aziraphale feels as though he could turn bastard long enough to refund these two angels their treatment of his beloved friend.

“Do ye threaten thy brethren, Principality? Are these your true colors?” Questions the presiding archangel, sounding far more amused than concerned.

“And are these _yours_!?” Aziraphale snaps back, gesturing to the dribbles of shiny blood besmirching the dolomite marble floor.

“Enough!” Someone roars, rising from the crowded pews and taking a stand in the center aisle between Aziraphale and the front of the courtroom.

It’s the archangel Gabriel.

~~~

_And I don't cry for yesterday  
There's an ordinary world  
Somehow I have to find  
And as I try to make my way  
To the ordinary world  
I will learn to survive_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song lyrics: 'Ordinary World' by Duran Duran. 
> 
> All too often, I think, we are accused by others for being ourselves. Who we are is beautifully flawed, because true beauty is not perfection it’s honesty. Who we love is tragically perfect, because love is perfect and the intolerance of this world is a tragedy. 
> 
> I may not know you, but I believe you, and I love you. If last year has taught me anything, it’s that never again will I love sparingly. I have thin skin, and I cry easily, but love for my fellow human beings and the power we hold to make things right gives me hope and strength. 
> 
> This is not the end, it never was.


End file.
